


Memento Mori

by oceansinmychest



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 09:12:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9484496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: She's sick and feverish from this possession. It's hollowed her out. Made her favorite, but there's a loyalty embedded within Sir Malcolm. He'll wait it out as though it's a storm.





	

**Author's Note:**

> What are timelines? I'd say this takes place somewhere during/towards the end of season one. This is what happens when you bingewatch TV shows; you lose track of time and its conception!

There's a light fading from her eyes, a waning youth that makes women plump, bitter, and disenchanted with their lives. He doesn't tell her that he sees it, that it's the look his wife bore when Mina was taken from them and Peter gave up the ghost in Africa.

Miss Ives carries a haunt with her, a burden and guilt so profound that it drags her shoulders down and leads to dark circles that make it feel like she's poked her eyes out with shards from Bloody Mary's mirror.

They have seen things from this world that no one else has.

It is not a luxury, but a prison they share.

Sir Malcolm sits by her bedside, attentive and astute. Not even the Devil will take her.

Beside her, he reads poetry, a surprise from a man so ingrained in reality and truth. She listens to the rustling of old pages as a reassuring hymn. It reminds her of the Church that turned her away. It reminds her of when she was a child rushing into Malcolm's office, eager to peek at the scrolls that engulfed his massive desk.

In her weakness, she reaches out to him – a pale, slender hand with fingers splayed and awaiting a touch she knows that she doesn't deserve. He does not glance sidelong, but placed his calloused one on top of hers. Their fingers sink together like the weight of an anchor that's sea-bound.

“Please don't leave me” is what the touch says.

A fever cripples her, accompanied by a cold sweat. He kisses her on the brow and she wishes it had been more. She wishes that he could make up for what Peter could not reciprocate.

When his lips do linger over hers, it takes her breath away.

“Good night, Vanessa.”

His voice is a rumbling whisper that parts the earth, that causes the sea to rise, and lava to surge past the cracks.

Death comes for them all, but she is not ready.

“Don't go.”

So, he stays.

An old dog remains.


End file.
